


Need

by Anonymous



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Choking, Hair-pulling, Hand Jobs, Idk when this is set but the only Deaky i can think of is the one with the short puffy hair, M/M, PWP, Please Don't Hate Me, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Semi-Public Sex, Sexual Tension, The writer is horny and also ashamed, you know the one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2018-12-05
Packaged: 2019-09-12 10:40:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16871437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Roger has needs.





	Need

Roger woke up like this.  
  
This morning, he’d woken up desperately hard, having been pulled out of a particularly delicious dream by his alarm. His _second_ alarm. There’d been no time for a shower, let alone any time to - ahem - take care of his little issue. He’d arrived at the studio in a mood, and had been in a mood all day, sitting impatiently behind the drums, bouncing his leg, watching as the seconds crept by. And he’d tried not to make anything of it; it was just a typical ‘Roger’s in a mood’ kind of day. But it was only lunch time and they’d already been working forever and then Brian made a comment - a perfectly innocent comment - and Roger had snapped at him. He hadn’t meant to, really, it had just happened. But his bandmates had looked at him like he’d just grown an extra head. Brian looked hurt. Roger wanted the ground to swallow him up right there.  
  
It was John who broke the silence, his usual lighthearted tone restoring some kind of normality to the situation.   
  
“Shall we break for lunch, then? Come back in, say, fifteen minutes?”  
  
“Twenty,” said Roger, already half way out of the door.   
  
And that was that. Twenty minutes. He could do what he needed to do in twenty minutes, and probably fit a cigarette in afterwards, too. Then he could apologise to Brian, crack a joke, and they’d all laugh, and that would be that.   
  
He went down the stairs two at a time, utterly oblivious to the sound of soft footsteps behind him. He slipped into the bathroom on the first floor, the studio being on the second, and looked at himself in the mirror for a moment. His cheeks were flushed an embarrassing shade of red, and his hair was a mess, still untouched from the morning. He splashed himself with cold water. When he was done here, he really did need to apologise to Brian. He turned on his heel and was about to lock himself into a stall, when the door opened. He could have screamed.   
  
It was John.  
  
“Look, De-” He began, but John cut him off.  
  
“What is wrong with you today?” He asked, and where Roger would expect there to be anger, he just heard curiosity.   
  
“Nothing. I slept in, that’s all.”  
  
John scoffed, leaning back against the wall. His white t-shirt was tight in all the right places. This did not help.   
  
“Bullshit. Come on, Rog. Tell me why you’ve got that stick up your arse.”  
  
Roger bit back a laugh, leaning against the sink.   
  
“I don’t have a stick up my arse, Deaky, that’s part of the problem.”  
  
John’s eyes raked up and down his body, torturously slow. He felt suddenly slightly self-conscious.   
  
“I see,” John returned slowly, after a long pause, coy smile on his lips.   
  
“So if you would, just, you know, let me-”  
  
He was cut off by John’s hand flat on his chest. He trailed off into silence, stuttering over his words. John stepped closer to him, voice low and sultry.  
  
“Can I kiss you?” He asked, and the world stood still.  
  
“God, yes,” Roger breathed, and John’s lips crashed into his own, and it was like heaven. His lips tasted like artificial cherry and the faintest hint of smoke. He would have loved to have stayed there all day, in that frankly disgusting bathroom, just kissing John. But there were more pressing matters at hand, and they were running out of time.   
  
“Fuck,” he breathed as they pulled apart, and the younger man looked at him with indecipherable eyes. Roger couldn’t find any more words, nothing else existed in his mind other than himself and John in this filthy little bathroom.   
  
It was John who moved first, in fact, pulling Roger towards the stall and locking the door behind them. The space was tiny, but neither of them cared as they kissed one another again, hands straying into back pockets and fingers sliding into hair.   
  
“Pull it,” Roger whispered against John’s lips, and the other man paused for a moment.  
  
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he murmured.  
  
“Yes you do,” was the simple response, before Roger captured his lips again. John grabbed a fistful of his blonde hair and pulled, qualms from a moment ago forgotten, and Roger keened against him.   
  
“If you don’t- If you don’t do something proper,” Roger said breathlessly, cut off when John yanked on his hair again, “I _will_ come in my pants like a fucking teenager. Just- Just a warning.” He said it with a smile and a breathless laugh, but it was true, and John knew it.  
  
He removed his hands from Roger’s hair and dealt with the zip and button of his jeans. He palmed him through his boxers, but Roger’s frantic half-whisper, half-whine of, “Twenty minutes,” made him rethink. He worked the other’s jeans and boxers halfway down his thighs, and his cock sprung free of its confines. Roger let out an obscene sound that John would commit to memory for a long time; somewhere between a moan and a sob. It was like music.   
  
John kissed up the column of his throat, nipping with his teeth here and there, hands staying firmly above his waist.  
  
“Touch me,” Roger whined, squirming against the stall door. John simply hushed him and tangled a hand in his hair again. He focused on making a mark, sucking a bruise into the skin of his collarbone. It might just peek out from behind Roger’s shirt collar. Then they would know. And that was just what he wanted.  “John, I swear, if you don’t touch me, I’m going to go insane.”  
  
Roger’s desperate, needy voice pulled him back to the present, and he smiled against the drummer’s skin. John traced one finger up the length of Roger’s cock, following its slight curve with his index finger. And Roger, already so delightfully sensitive, let out that noise again, the one between a moan and a sob, and it made John want to _sin_.   
He pushed his hips against John’s thigh, desperate for some - any - friction. He knew better than to reach down there himself; his hands would only be batted away. John teased his cock with the slightest bit of touch, but his real attention was focused on the impressive hickey he was forming on Roger’s collarbone.  
  
“They’ll see,” Roger warned him, and John just nodded, stepping back for a second to admire his handiwork.   
  
Roger looked a mess, bracing himself against the door like that, strands of hair sticking to his forehead, cheeks bright pink, pupils blown out wide. If they’d had all the time in the world, John would have ravaged him right then and there. As it was, they were on a time limit.   
  
“Tell me what you want me to do to you,” he murmured, and Roger whined impatiently, squirming once more.  
  
“Touch me - God, please touch me. Make me come. I’ll do anything - I promise you I’ll make it up to you, later, if you please just touch me now.”  
  
That was good enough for John. He trailed kisses up Roger’s throat again, tongue flicking at his pulse point, biting at his jaw. He paused only to spit into his hand, which he wished he didn’t have to do, but desperate times call for desperate measures and all that. Roger seemed to tense in anticipation, then at the first touch, he melted. He slung both of his arms around John’s shoulders, one hand moving into his hair. His head fell backwards, lips parting just slightly, frantic, high-pitched moans spilling from his mouth as John stroked him in an even rhythm. He dissolved into breathless rambling as John picked up the pace a little, strings of praises and curses and pleas flowing quickly from his lips. Normally, he would be ashamed to be this close so soon, but he _needed_ this right now; he’d needed this orgasm since he woke up this morning, and he’d be damned if he was going to let his pride get in the way of it.  
  
“Fuck!” he cried out, heat already pooling in the pit of his stomach. “John- fuck- your hand- around my throat- fuck, please, please, please- shit-!”  
  
John took a moment to process what he’d just been asked, but did it without questioning. He pressed ever so lightly against Roger’s throat, not wanting to actually hurt him, but when the drummer gasped, “Harder,” it was difficult to resist.  
  
He came hard, trembling and cursing, face contorted in a look of pure bliss. He stood there with his eyes closed for what seemed like a long while, face pointing toward the ceiling. Neither of them said anything.  
  
When he opened his eyes, John was holding out a wad of paper towels, which he used to hurriedly clean himself up and then quickly flushed away, hiding all evidence that they’d ever done anything.  
  
After a long stretch of cleaning and silence, Roger turned to unlock the door without a second word.  
  
“Wait,” John caught his wrist, green eyes boring into his own. “Was that, um, good?”  
  
Roger’s lip curled. “Amazing.” 


End file.
